#terza
These are my modern English translations of poems by Dante Alighieri.
Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her sweetness left me intoxicated.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love commands me by dictating my desires.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Follow your own path and let bystanders gossip.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The devil is not as dark as depicted.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze?
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind?
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Midway through my life’s journey
I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood,
for I had strayed far from the straight path.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL
Before me nothing created existed, to fear.
Eternal I am, eternal I endure.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sonnet: “Ladies of Modest Countenance” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, who wear a modest countenance,
With eyelids weighed down by such heaviness,
How is it, that among you every face
Is haunted by the same pale troubled glance?
Have you seen in my lady's face, perchance,
the grief that Love provokes despite her grace?
Confirm this thing is so, then in her place,
Complete your grave and sorrowful advance.
And if, indeed, you match her heartfelt sighs
And mourn, as she does, for the heart's relief,
Then tell Love how it fares with her, to him.
Love knows how you have wept, seeing your eyes,
And is so grieved by gazing on your grief
His courage falters and his sight grows dim.
Paradiso, Canto III:1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love,
Had now revealed to me―as visions move―
The gentle and confounding face of Truth.
Thus I, by her sweet grace and love reproved,
Corrected, and to true confession moved,
Raised my bowed head and found myself behooved
To speak, as true admonishment required,
And thus to bless the One I so desired,
When I was awed to silence! This transpired:
As the outlines of men’s faces may amass
In mirrors of transparent, polished glass,
Or in shallow waters through which light beams pass
(Even so our eyes may easily be fooled
By pearls, or our own images, thus pooled):
I saw a host of faces, pale and lewd,
All poised to speak; but when I glanced around
There suddenly was no one to be found.
A pool, with no Narcissus to astound?
But then I turned my eyes to my sweet Guide.
With holy eyes aglow and smiling wide,
She said, “They are not here because they lied.”
Sonnet: “A Vision of Love” or “Love’s Faithful Ones” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To every gentle heart true Love may move,
And unto whom my words must now be brought
For wise interpretation’s tender thought,
I greet you in our Lord's name, which is Love.
Through night’s last watch, as winking stars, above,
Kept their high vigil over men, distraught,
Love came to me, with such dark terrors fraught
As mortals may not casually speak of.
Love seemed a being of pure Joy and held
My heart, pulsating. On his other arm
My lady, wrapped in thinnest gossamers, slept.
He, having roused her from her sleep, then made
My heart her feast—devoured with alarm.
He then departed; as he left, he wept.
Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi.
Here is a Deity, stronger than myself, who comes to dominate me.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.
Your blessedness has now been manifested unto you.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps.
Alas, how often I will be restricted now!
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra.
My son, it is time to cease counterfeiting.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic.
Love said: “I am as the center of a harmonious circle; everything is equally near me. No so with you.”
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sonnet: “Love’s Thoroughfare” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“O voi che par la via”
All those who travel Love's worn tracks,
Pause here, awhile, and ask
Has there ever been a grief like mine?
Pause here, from that mad race;
Patiently hear my case:
Is it not a piteous marvel and a sign?
Love, not because I played a part,
But only due to his great heart,
Afforded me a provenance so sweet
That often others, as I went,
Asked what such unfair gladness meant:
They whispered things behind me in the street.
But now that easy gait is gone
Along with the wealth Love afforded me;
And so in time I’ve come to be
So poor that I dread to ponder thereon.
And thus I have become as one
Who hides his shame of his poverty
By pretending happiness outwardly,
While within I travail and moan.
Sonnet: “Cry for Pity” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These thoughts lie shattered in my memory:
When through the past I see your lovely face.
When you are near me, thus, Love fills all Space,
And often whispers, “Is death better? Flee!”
My face reflects my heart's blood-red dammed tide,
Which, fainting, seeks some shallow resting place;
Till, in the blushing shame of such disgrace,
The very earth seems to be shrieking, “Die!”
’Twould be a grievous sin, if one should not
Relay some comfort to my harried mind,
If only with some simple pitying
For this great anguish which fierce scorn has wrought
Through faltering sights of eyes grown nearly blind,
Which search for death now, like a blessed thing.
Excerpt from Paradiso
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
****** Mother, daughter of your Son,
Humble, yet exalted above creation,
And the eternal counsel’s apex shown,
You are the Pinnacle of human nature,
Your nobility instilled by its Creator,
Who did not, having you, disdain his creature.
Love was rekindled in your perfect womb
Where warmth and holy peace were given room
For this, Perfection’s Rose, once sown, to bloom.
Now unto us you are a Torch held high
Our noonday sun―the light of Charity,
Our wellspring of all Hope, a living sea.
Madonna, so pure, high and all-availing,
The man who desires grace of you, though failing,
Despite his grounded state, is given wing!
Your mercy does not fail, but, Ever-Blessed,
The one who asks finds oftentimes his quest
Unneeded: you foresaw his first request!
You are our Mercy; you are our Compassion;
you are Magnificence; in you creation
Unites whatever Goodness deems Salvation.
THE MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart ― youth, liberty, glory ―
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.
Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes ― calm, implacable, pitiless.
“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”
She answers, “Yes.”
I have also translated this poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:
Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are ...
to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness ...
Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch
Dante’s was a defensive reflex
against religion’s hex.
―Michael R. Burch
Dante, you Dunce!
by Michael R. Burch
The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce!
Which you should have perceived―since you lived here once.
God is no Beatrice, gentle and clever.
Judas and Satan were wise to dissever
from false “messiahs” who cannot save.
Why flit like a bat through Plato’s cave
believing such shadowy illusions are real?
There is no "hell" but to live and feel!
How Dante Forgot Christ
by Michael R. Burch
Dante ****** the brightest and the fairest
for having loved―pale Helen, wild Achilles―
agreed with his Accuser in the spell
of hellish visions and eternal torments.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love,
the fulcrum of his body’s, heart’s and mind’s
sole triumph, and their altogether conquest.
She led him to those heights where Love, enshrined,
blazed like a star beyond religion’s hells.
Once freed from Yahweh, in the arms of Love,
like Blake and Milton, Dante forgot Christ.
The Christian gospel is strangely lacking in Milton’s and Dante’s epics. Milton gave the “atonement” one embarrassed enjambed line. Dante ****** the Earth’s star-crossed lovers to his grotesque hell, while doing exactly what they did: pursing at all costs his vision of love, Beatrice. Blake made more sense to me, since he called the biblical god Nobodaddy and denied any need to be “saved” by third parties.
Dante’s Antes
by Michael R. Burch
There’s something glorious about man,
who lives because he can,
who dies because he must,
and in between’s a bust.
No god can reign him in:
he’s quite intent on sin
and likes it rather, really.
He likes *** touchy-feely.
He likes to eat too much.
He has the Midas touch
and paves hell’s ways with gold.
The things he’s bought and sold!
He’s sold his soul to Mammon
and also plays backgammon
and poker, with such antes
as still befuddle Dantes.
I wonder―can hell hold him?
His chances seem quite dim
because he’s rather puny
and also loopy-looney.
And yet like Evel Knievel
he dances with the Devil
and seems so **** courageous,
good-natured and outrageous
some God might show him mercy
and call religion heresy.
Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands
by Michael R. Burch
Judas sat on a wretched rock,
his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing.
Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye,
wildly geeing and hawing.
I’m on parole from Hell today!
Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.
You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint!
Let this rock by my church,
my baptismal, these icy waves.
O, plead for me now with the One who saves!
Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood
at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,
and mightily prayed for the mangy man
whose flesh flashed pale and stark
in the golden dawn, beneath a sun
that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.
Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land
and Saint Judas headed Home.
O, behoove yourself, if ever your can,
of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!
In Dante’s Inferno, Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.
RE: Paradiso, Canto III
by Michael R. Burch
for the most “Christian” of poets
What did Dante do,
to earn Beatrice’s grace
(grace cannot be earned!)
but cast disgrace
on the whole human race,
on his peers and his betters,
as a man who wears cheap rayon suits
might disparage men who wear sweaters?
How conventionally “Christian” ― Poet! ― to ****
your fellow man
for being merely human,
then, like a contented clam,
to grandly claim
near-infinite “grace,”
as if your salvation was God’s only aim!
What a scam!
And what of the lovely Piccarda,
whom you placed in the lowest sphere of heaven
for neglecting her vows ―
She was forced!
Were you chaste?
Intimations V
by Michael R. Burch
We had not meditated upon sound
so much as drowned
in the inhuman ocean
when we imagined it broken
open
like a conch shell
whorled like the spiraling hell
of Dante’s Inferno.
Trapped between Nature
and God,
what is man
but an inquisitive,
acquisitive
sod?
And what is Nature
but odd,
or God
but a Clod,
and both of them horribly flawed?
Endgame
by Michael R. Burch
The honey has lost all its sweetness,
the hive―its completeness.
Now ambient dust, the drones lie dead.
The workers weep, their King long fled
(who always had been **** invisible,
his “kingdom” atomic, divisible,
and pathetically risible).
The queen has flown,
long Dis-enthroned,
who would have given all she owned
for a promised white stone.
O, Love has fled, has fled, has fled ...
Religion is dead, is dead, is dead.
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again . . .
****** off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when . . .
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all ******
Keyword/Tags: Dante, Italian, translation, sonnet, Italian sonnet, crown of sonnets, rhyme, love, affinity and love, Rome, Italy, Florence, terza rima
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 6:27 AM UTC
The aged archtop hangs upon the wall
A work of art she still has beauty rare
In shame to this assignment did befall
When dressed in flat-wound strings she's light as air
And man, that girl could really sing the blues
Her heavy bottom tones would strip you bare
Those scars and scratches show she's paid her dues
Much like the one deployed into her keep
With cramp and pain the fingers now refuse
The passion, now regret, to soul will creep
A substitute must find a way to mend
So timbre, note and rhythm still can reap
Although it's hard for some to comprehend
Sometimes your inner music must be penned
rc
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
A serpentine chisels paranoia into the soul,
A plaque of distrust, sculptures of fear,
A wicked work of art as it takes control
O sordid Oizys, of you speaks an urbane seer!
Through his teeth emerges your ambition,
Aspiration of which in repulse I jeer
With dark power, you summon serpents, terror is their mission
With fangs of dismay, they bite the throat,
And the venom sows the poisons of suspicion
Hark! Goddess of anguish, the victims arise with antidote!
Guidance of the trained, support of the friend
No longer, in their tormented cries, shall you gloat
By the sword of Kratos, your bones shall break and bend
Your victims rise, determined are they for fears to cease
Their rage shall be your glorious end
A spectacle it shall be, from fear a sweet release
The terror will no longer control minds
Finally, the tormented shall be at peace!
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 6:55 PM UTC
She discriminates none, no story unread,
Tales of magic and creation and death,
Some inspire her with happiness, others with dread.
She reads Shakespeare's Macbeth,
Fairy tales from the brothers Grimm,
Luxurious stories stealing her breath.
When at last her mind is filled to the brim,
She takes up her pen,
And writes on a whim.
The words spill out, again and again,
She tries her hand at jokes,
A skilled comedienne.
She writes of a forest of oaks,
Waiting for the spring,
Shivering under their snowy cloaks.
She tells a tales of a king,
Of a child alone,
She writes of a bird with only one wing.
As the years fly by she sits on her throne,
Made up of hopes and dreams and words
The number of stories she’s written is unknown.
She says goodbye twice, then comes back for thirds,
Her body is worn, but her mind is sharp,
She lets go, and flies with the birds.
She swims with the carp,
She fights with the knights,
She listens to the ethereal sound of the harp.
Her spirit lives on, she soars to new heights.
Constantly busy,
Forever seeing the sights.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
Scattered notes from the passive mind,
re-analysed with blissful anticipation,
searching for descriptive ways to be defined.
Imaginative pebble paths give me temptation,
luring my instincts in like a curious cat in the night,
a sinful soul hidden within a blooming carnation.
There are many ways to catch a spark through spite,
I refuse to abandon my kind, gentle morale,
to become a puppet amongst those who refuse to contrite.
When respecting the masterpieces - no matter how small,
fuel awarded amusements I begin to rope in,
leave me crawling but never let me fall.
Cheering, motivation, intelligence and motion,
satisfactions fills me when my eyes are open.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
Refulgent rays of silver light
Shine through the blackberry clouds,
Illuminating the shadows of the night.
It shines down on her stature proud
As she begins her journey away
From the betrayal of her avowed.
She lingers ’til the break of day,
Then lowering her hood and eyes
Walks the first steps of her way,
Towards the sun’s blush-pink rise.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC